


King of Love and Beauty

by lj_todd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kindness, Love, Marriage Proposal, Tournaments, Tourney of the Hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lj_todd/pseuds/lj_todd
Summary: Five times Jon was, unexpectedly, crowned the King of Love and Beauty, and the one time he did not mind.





	1. Jorah

**Author's Note:**

> Request from [@mischief11thing](mischief11things.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr.

Jon was six summers the first time he attended a tourney.

It had been after the forces loyal to the Crown crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion and held in the westerlands, in Lannisport.

His lordly father, Eddard Stark, had fetched him and his brother, Robb, to take them to celebrate King Robert's victory. He had brought with him a slender boy, a few years older than he and Robb. Theon Greyjoy, heir to Lord Balon Greyjoy and newly appointed ward of Lord Stark.

The journey was rough and Jon was mindful not to complain. He had never been further than the winter town before and he was excited to see what lay beyond the north.

Lannisport was loud and noisy, repairs being finished and Jon's nose wrinkled in uncertainty of the place. It was brighter and grander than anything he had before seen and he kept as close to his father as he could. 

He stood back, next to Jory Cassel, the young man letting him clutch his hand when Ned greeted King Robert and introduced Robb to the man he had been named for.

Jon would not be granted such an introduction.

He was, after all, a bastard. 

He might have been six but he had long ago learned what that meant.

So he was surprised, deeply so, when King Robert's gaze, a stormy blue, fixed on him.

The King was tall and broad, built like a wild bull or so Jon thought, and his hair and beard were thick and black. He looked at Jon for barely a moment before smiling and clapping Ned on the arm.

"You've forgotten someone, Ned," the King said, still smiling, moving forward, closer to Jon, who immediately let go of Jory's hand, wanting to appear braver than he felt. "And who might you be, hmm?"

"I..." Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat, remembering all his lessons with Maester Luwin. "I'm Jon Snow, Your Grace. Son of Lord Stark."

King Robert studied him for a moment and Jon thought the King murmured a name, a woman's name, as a broad hand cupped his cheek for a moment.

"You've your father's eyes, Jon, did you know that," the King asked, smiling gently and Jon gave a tiny nod.

"Yes, Your Grace." He glanced briefly at his father. "Old Nan...our nanny...says I look like...like my Lord Father when he was little."

King Robert chuckled and lightly patted Jon's cheek.

"Indeed you do," the King said before stepping back and turning to Ned. "You and your boys will join me in the main box, Ned, let them see a tourney properly."

Ned, glancing between King Robert and Jon briefly, gave a nod and, without another word, King Robert was off, barking for his squire to follow. Ned watched the King go before gesturing for Jon to join him and Robb before leading the boys to their tent.

The tourney lasted a week and, every day, Jon joined his father and brother in the high seats alongside the King and the two members of the Kingsguard who guarded him. It was a grand thing, watching knights and nobles compete. Jon had a difficult time keeping track of who was who. Some of the sigil were unfamiliar to him, though he easily recognized the dancing black bear of House Mormont.

Lord Jorah Mormont was fierce and strong and rode wearing a grey and white favour around his arm.

When he defeated Ser Boros Blount, a member of the Kingsguard, Jon had cheered loudly for Lord Jorah victory and, during brief break that allowed knights a moment to rest, Jon snuck away to find Lord Jorah.

He found the man near a tent, a squire tending to his horse while the man himself inspected the lances he would use in his final joust against the King's chosen champion, Ser Jaime Lannister.

Lord Jorah was tall and broad, like most northern men, and Jon couldn't help but admire his strength. Lord Jorah was of Bear Island, a son of House Mormont, and Jon wondered, for a moment, if he might one day be able to squire for the man.

He took a step forward quietly but knocked over a shield, which clattered noisily, and caused Lord Jorah to spin around. Jon stilled and stared at the man, who seemed to relax upon realizing there was no danger, only a child.

"Hello there," Lord Jorah said, voice a quiet rumble. "And who just who might you be?"

"Jon. Jon Snow."

Lord Jorah smiled as he left his lances and approached Jon.

"You are Lord Stark's son," the man said and Jon nodded. "The bastard?"

Jon couldn't help the way he flinched but he nodded all the same.

"I..." Jon bit his lip for a moment. "I just wanted to say that...that I hope you win, Lord Jorah. You...You're the best knight I've ever seen and I...I truly hope the Gods let you win."

Lord Jorah, having reached where Jon stood, smiled at him and crouched down.

"Thank you, Jon," the man said and Jon smiled tentatively. "I will do my best. Are you watching the tourney with your nanny perhaps?"

Jon shook his head.

"The King invited me to sit with my Father and brother with him," Jon explained, smile widening slightly. "He...He was very kind to do so."

"Indeed." Lord Jorah nodded, smiling kindly. "You have enjoyed the tourney so far?"

Jon nodded.

"I do truly hope you win, my Lord."

Lord Jorah chuckled softly.

"I will try all the harder to do so, knowing I have a fellow northman cheering me on."

Jon beamed brightly only to startle when he heard Jory calling his name from somewhere off behind him. Lord Jorah patted his shoulder, lightly.

"Best be off now, Jon." Lord Jorah smiled as he spoke. "Don't want to get in trouble now, do you?"

Jon shook his head and went to move, to find Jory before the man stumbled upon them, but paused turning back to give Lord Jorah a bright, childish smile.

"Good luck, my Lord," he said before darting off, hearing Lord Jorah chuckle behind him.

He found Jory not too far away and, though he got a quiet scolding as the young man led him back to his father to watch the final joust, Jon could not stop smiling as he settled into his seat. When Robb asked him why he was smiling like that Jon simply shook his head and watched the field, waiting, just knowing that Lord Jorah would win.

When Ser Jaime Lannister rode out onto the field he was dressed in his shining white Kingsguard armour and looked like a most resplendent knight. But Jon cared little for the southern knight and turned his attention instead to the northerner dressed in dark armour trimmed with green.

Jon was on the edge of his seat as he watched the two men square off. Both were strong and confident and sat their saddles well. The joust went on and on. Neither man refusing to back down, refusing to give up and, only after Lord Jorah had broken nine lances against Ser Jaime, did King Robert call an end to the match and declared Lord Jorah the victor.

A roar of cheers and applauds went through the crowd and Jon stood as he cheered, watching Lord Jorah ride his horse quickly around the jousting ring before turning it to the box, to where King Robert stood waiting with the crown that Lord Jorah would use to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty.

The crown was made of frost blue roses, winter roses they were called, and Jon thought it a silly thing but, he knew, ladies, highborn or low, liked flowers.

Lord Jorah rode over, accepting the floral crown with a bow of his head.

Jon smiled as he watched the man carefully hold the delicate crown between his hands, shifting it slightly, before he nudged his horse and began to slowly ride forward.

All were surprised when Lord Jorah paused before where Jon stood and, as all watched, plucked a flower from the crown and, carefully, tucked it into Jon's hair, the stem behind the boy's ear.

Jon blushed but kept smiling as Lord Jorah bowed his head slightly before riding on to lay the crown on the head of Lady Lynesse Hightower.

When Jon looked up at his father, still smiling, he was surprised, and confused, to see Ned scowling in the direction of Lord Jorah. Jon couldn't help but wonder why his father looked so angry.

He was drawn from his thoughts when Robb bumped him, making some silly joke about the pretty blue flower in his hair.

He was again surprised when his father ordered Jory to see he and Robb back to their tent, his father saying something about wishing to speak with Lord Jorah, to congratulate his bannerman on his victory but there was something in Ned's voice, something tight and angry sounding, and, even as Jory herded him and Robb along, Jon couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, watching his father disappear into the crowd.

He certainly hoped his father wasn't angry at Lord Jorah for giving him a flower.

Maybe if he offered to give it back everything would be alright again.


	2. Brynden

The next time Jon saw a tourney was four years later, shortly after the celebration of Robb's tenth name day.

A raven had arrived, carrying with it a letter of invitation to a tourney at Riverrun to celebrate Lord Hoster Tully's name day. Jon had been surprised to learn, via Robb, that Lord Hoster, Lady Catelyn's father, had included a note that, as Robb easily quoted _"All children, and that means the Greyjoy boy and Stark's wayward son, were invited should they wish to attend."_

Robb had, naturally, been thrilled but Jon saw it for what it truly was.

A way for Lord Hoster to appear kindly towards his good-son's ward and bastard.

For Theon to attend would not be seen as too amiss. He was, after all, heir to the Iron Islands. But to include Jon was not something usually done. And Jon hesitated at first when his father asked if he wished to attend but, in the end, he agreed to go.

Riverrun was a grand place, old yet warm and it rose above the banks of the river like a silent guardian.

Lord Hoster greeted his family warmly, hugging his grandchildren tightly, even little Bran, who squirmed and squealed when his grandfather's thick beard tickled him. And when those bright blue eyes finally turned to him, calculating, Jon immediately ducked his head and tried to look even smaller. He was not important, after all, just the bastard son.

Nothing was said about his presence and he was quietly roomed with Theon, who grumped about it but was not overly unkind, no more so than usual, so Jon felt things were quite alright.

The tourney was just as exciting as the one in Lannisport and, on the first day, Jon noted one of the knights flying House Tully banners but with a black fish and, when he pointed it out to Robb, his brother had frowned a bit.

"That's my Grandfather's brother," Robb explained. "Brynden."

Jon turned his attention back to the knight.

Brynden Tully was a tall man but built leanly, like most of the men of the Riverlands, and unlike Lord Hoster he was clean shaven and his thick hair, combed back neatly, was a fading auburn. He was dressed in grey heavy plate armor and wore a cloak of blue and mud red that was fastened with a leaping black fish. He wore no ribbon or token of any of the ladies present, at least not one Jon could see, and he frowned a little at that.

He looked at the other knights, readying for the jousts and the melees, and saw they all wore favours from the ladies they sought to impress. Even Jory, who was riding for House Stark, work a strip of grey and white fabric gifted to him by little Sansa as a sign of her respect for all his service to her family. But Lord Brynden wore no token or favour.

Jon couldn't explain it but something about that bothered him. A well known warrior like Lord Brynden deserved to be shown some favour.

He couldn't say how the idea came to him, and it took promising his deserts for a week to Arya, but he eventually managed to get his littlest sister to give him the grey and white ribbon her mother had given her to give to one of the few northern knights competing. It helped that Arya hadn't truly wanted to give the ribbon to anyone unless it was her father or one of her brothers.

No one noticed when he slipped away before the jousting began and he slipped easily through the crowd until, finally, he reached where Lord Brynden was snarling at the young man attending him.

"If you cannot remember the simplest of tasks, boy, perhaps I'll send you back to Acorn Hill and wait for one of my great-nephews to be old enough to be my squire!"

The young man scampered away, likely to do whatever task had been asked of him, and Jon, nervous now, having seen Lord Brynden's ire, cleared his throat, loudly, and carefully twisted the ribbon around his fingers as the tall man whirled around, gaze fierce and stormy before it dipped, settling on him with a frown.

"Well, now," Lord Brynden said as he slowly crouched down. "If it isn't Eddard's little pup. You've strayed quite a ways from the pack, lad."

Jon gave a tiny nod and, slowly, held out the ribbon.

"I...I saw you didn't have a favour or...or token and...well..." Jon shuffled his feet, suddenly nervous that the man would laugh at him, thinking him a foolish child, and send him on his way. "I...I thought it...it isn't fair that all the other men have favours or...or tokens but you...you don't. So...I...I..." 

Jon looked down at the ribbon in his hands and suddenly felt foolish and like a little child.

Lord Brynden, however, surprised him by smiling warmly and gently plucking the ribbon from his hands.

"It's a kind thing," the man said, slowly wrapping the ribbon around his wrist, using his teeth and one hand to tie a knot in it. "You've a good heart. It's Jon, isn't it?"

Jon nodded and an odd look flashed across Lord Brynden's face as the man's hand, large and warm and calloused from years of wielding a sword, cupped the side of his face and tipped his head upward slightly. Lord Brynden stared at his face for several long, quiet minutes and again something odd passed through the man's eyes and Jon, growing nervous, opened his mouth to speak but Lord Brynden spoke first.

"You've got your father's face, lad," Lord Brynden said softly, still smiling but it was different, the way Uncle Benjen smiled sometimes when looking at Jon. "You'll be a handsome one." Lord Brynden patted his cheek. "You get back to the stands now. Don't want to miss all the fun."

He ruffled Jon's hair before rising and turning away.

Jon watched him for a moment before hurrying on his way, silently praying that, though Lord Brynden was a southern man, the Old Gods saw fit to give the man their blessing and let him win. He reached the stands, taking his place next to Theon, and watched, eagerly, as the tourney commenced.

The competition was fierce and Robb cheered loudly for both Jory and Lord Brynden and, though Jon did not cheer, when he saw Lord Bryden look at him from beneath his dark helm, he lifted his hand and smiled as brightly as he could.

By the end of the first day only eight men remained in the joust, Jory and Lord Brynden among the eight.

By the end of the second day Jory and Lord Brynden were two of four riders left.

The end of the third day saw Lord Brynden and Jory as the final pair.

When Jon stood in the stands that fourth morning he noted that when Lord Bryden rode to the lists he did not ride his grey gelding this time but a large stallion the color of a starless sky and, tied obviously to the stallion's bridle, was the grey and white ribbon Jon had gifted Lord Brynden. He heard the murmurs from Robb and Sansa, confused, and ignored Arya's questioning look.

Hushed voices whispered through the crowd around him but Jon could focus only on the two riders, all but holding his breath as the joust began.

Lance after lance broke, Jory doing well to hold himself against the powerful blows from Lord Brynden but, in the joust, strength and speed mattered more than age and, on the fifth lance, Lord Brynden proved both by unhorsing Jory with a shattering blow.

The crowd erupted and, for the first time in four days, Jon allowed himself to cheer and applaud.

He watched, grinning the entire while, as Lord Brynden galloped his stallion around the ring, waving and giving Jory time to collect himself from the dirt and return to his horse, before riding to the main booth to collect the crown of flowers so that he might crown the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Jon heard a whisper that Lord Brynden would likely crown his niece, Lady Catelyn, or one of her daughters, and he smiled even more. He hoped they were right. Sansa would love to be crowned, he knew, what with all her dreams of knights and princesses. And it would make Lady Catelyn happy, perhaps, to be honoured by her uncle. Though he suspected Arya would rather her great-uncle gift her a small sword rather than a crown of flowers.

He was surprised, and confused, as was everyone else watching, when Lord Brynden rode his horse right passed Lady Catelyn and both Sansa and Arya.

And then Lord Bryden stopped.

Right in front of where Jon stood.

And the man stretched up in the stirrups of his saddle, reached out and laid the crown of rich blue roses on Jon's head, smiling kindly at him before he looked, strangely, at Ned, who looked suddenly torn between applauding and possibly strangling Lord Brynden.

Lord Brynden merely smiled at Ned with an odd gleam in his eyes before calling out in a deep, booming voice.

"Behold, your _King_ of Love and Beauty."

Jon felt himself flush, his cheeks growing impossibly red, and he murmured a quiet thank you to the man before Lord Brynden bowed his head slightly and rode off.

Jon endured the endless teasing from Robb and Theon, the needling questions from Arya and Sansa, the scathing looks from Lady Catelyn, for the rest of their time in Riverrun. He was just glad the Old Gods had seen fit to answer his prayers to let Lord Brynden win the tourney. 

The morning they were set to depart, however, Jon came upon an odd thing.

He was in the stables, readying his horse, when he overheard his father's voice and that of Lord Brynden.

"Do you think, boy," Lord Brynden snarled and Jon, fearful, ducked behind the nearest barrel. "That I care what you promised?"

"Lower your voice, my Lord," Ned replied, voice just as much a snarl and Jon quivered. He had never heard his father speak that way before. Not to someone who was supposed to be a friend.

"Why? Afraid someone will hear?"

"I'm afraid you speak of things you do not..."

"What? Do not know?" Lord Brynden barked out a bitter laugh. "Anyone with a brain can look at that boy and see what I saw."

"You saw what you wanted to see."

"Did I now?" Jon heard heavy footsteps and then Lord Brynden's voice was closer, but lower. "You think to tell me that when I look at him I don't truly see Jaehaerys in him? In the shape of his eyes and nose? That I see it because I wish to?"

There was a sound, like someone being shoved, and then Ned's voice snarling out.

"Stay away from him," Ned spoke coldly, fiercely, like a wolf growling. "Do you hear? You _stay away_ from him. Whatever you think you know put it from your mind and forget you ever thought it."

Footsteps retreated then and Jon waited for several long minutes before slowly leaving his hiding place, finding the stables empty, save for himself and he felt as though his heart were trying to climb into his throat.

What had that all been about?

He thought of finding his father and asking, or perhaps Lord Brynden, but, in the end, knew it was not his place. He should not have lingered or listened to the conversation. He would do as his father had suggested Lord Brynden do and forget it.


	3. Jaime

It would be two years before Jon accompanied his father to another tourney.

Whether because the invitation simply did not include him or Ned did not wish to share the proof of his shame with the world, Jon could not say for sure, but what he did know was how surprised he was when his father announced he would accompanying him, Robb and Bran to Storm's End for a tourney to celebrate Lord Renly Baratheon's name day.

Jon knew, nearly all of Winterfell knew, that Ned had only accepted because the invitation at had come, not from Lord Renly, but from King Robert himself.

The journey was far from pleasant.

It rained almost constantly and, by the time they finally reached Storm's End, Jon felt more like a drowned rat than anything. He was not surprised when Bran came down with the sniffles nor when their father whisked him away inside the castle the moment they arrived, Robb and Theon following close behind.

Jon busied himself with helping tend to the horses and was thankful when the rain finally broke for the first time in three days. The sun barely peaked through the grey clouds but it was, in Jon's opinion, better than the rain.

Shrugging off his heavy, rain drenched cloak, Jon tended to Robb's horse first and then Theon's before moving to his poor mare. She snorted and nipped at his fingers as he rubbed her down, not wanting to risk her getting sick. He was crouched by her legs, running a dry cloth over her, when, to his surprise, a heavy, dry towel was suddenly draped over his shoulders.

Jerking, he looked up, wary, and found a blonde haired man standing over him.

"Lord Stark should take better care of his sons," the man said, giving a wiry grin. "Bad enough the little one is ill."

Jon grunted.

"Bastards don't count," he murmured softly, using words he'd often heard from Theon and the blonde's grin dipped.

"Ah, you're Jon then." The blonde's head tipped to the side slightly, like a curious bird. "Last time I saw you was when you were a child. The tourney at Lannisport I believe. Jorah Mormont gave you one of the winter roses."

Jon blinked and then he realized who the man he was.

"Ser Jaime," Jon breath and immediately ducked his head. "My apologies, my Lord, that I...I did not recognize you right away."

Jaime waved the apology away.

"Hardly your fault, I don't travel often, for obvious reasons of course," the knight said with a grin. "Odd to find the son of a Lord out in the stables while all the rest enjoy the warmth and dryness of the castle."

Jon huffed and looked away, reaching up to rub the towel over his soaked hair, trying not to feel angry or jealous of his siblings.

"As I said, my Lord," Jon murmured softly. "Bastards don't count."

Jaime said nothing for a moment before suddenly reaching out, cupping Jon's chin in his hand and turning the boy's head. Grey eyes met green and held, Jon uncertain what to make of the situation or what to do, so he merely sat there, towel draped over his head, blinking up owlishly at the knight who was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Something, like a shadow, passed over Jaime's face and his gaze flicked from Jon to the castle and back again.

"Gods, but you look like..." Jaime bit off his words and shook his head, seemingly thinking better of speaking them, before stepping back, releasing his hold on Jon.

"You should get some place dry and warm, boy," the knight said, though there was now something strange in his voice, something Jon remembered from years ago, when speaking with the Blackfish. "You won't enjoy the tourney with a case of the sniffles."

Without another word, Jaime turned swiftly and strode away, leaving Jon to watch him go in confusion.

It would be days before Jon would see the knight again and, when it did, it was in the jousting arena.

Jaime was dressed splendidly, in fine white-gold armour, heavy white cloak of the Kingsguard draped across his shoulders. Jon, seated not with his family, who sat with the King and Lord Renly, but further down the line with a few of his father's men, watched Jaime trot his large white stallion around the field a few times, showing off for the cheering crowd. Jon chuckled and shook his head as Jaime rode by him. Showboating, he knew, was all part of the tourney.

And yet, some part of Jon hoped that Ser Jaime won.

Given that most of the other knights in the joist were of the Stormlands or the Reach it wasn't difficult for Jon to choose a favourite for himself.

For all the Jaime was a Lannister and a Kingslayer, Jon couldn't help but hope the man won. Perhaps it might remind people that, like them all, Jaime was more than just his family name or a choice made in what had likely been a frightening moment.

Leaning against the railing, Jon watched as the jousting began.

By the end of it all the final two riders were Jaime and Loras Tyrell from the Reach.

"It'll be the Tyrell boy who'll win," Jory said from his right and Jon glanced at the man.

"You think so?"

Jory nodded.

"He's favoured by Lord Renly so, naturally, he'll win."

Jon frowned and glanced to where Jaime was readying his horse.

"Ser Jaime might win," Jon pointed out and Jory huffed a laugh.

"Not bloody likely," the man said, sending a scathing look Jaime's way. "He's probably been ordered by the King to lose to make Lord Renly happy. Wouldn't be the first time a knight lost for his Lord's pleasure."

Jon's frown deepened and he watched Jaime climb into his saddle, a squire handing him his lance. He didn't want Jaime to lose because the King told him too. That wasn't right. Surely the gods, Old or New, wouldn't permit that to go unanswered. Drawing a deep breath, Jon leaned a little more on the rail, silently praying to the Old Gods that Jaime would win.

The joust began when King Robert dropped the flag and Jaime charged forward, his horse kicking up dust as he barrelled towards Ser Loras. 

Jon's hand tightened around the rail, tiny splinters biting into his skin, and he watched, wide eyed, breath caught in his throat, as Jaime's lance struck home even as Ser Loras' did the same. The difference was that where Ser Loras' lance struck and glanced off Jaime's armour, Jaime's broke, splinters flying.

The crowd roared as the men circled back to their squires, collecting fresh lances, before squaring off and beginning the dangerous dance all over again.

Ten lances later and it was difficult to say which of the knights was doing better.

As they squared off for the final time Jon felt the energy in the crowd shift, felt how everyone stilled, watching with rapt attention to see who the victor would be and, again, he prayed to the Old Gods, asking for their favour for Jaime.

It seemed as though time slowed as Jaime's stallion tore across the ground, dirt kicked up by its hooves, its tail flying like a white flag in the wind. Jaime's armour glistened in the afternoon sun and, beneath the shadow of his helm, his eyes sparked like wildfire.

The crash of his lance against Ser Loras, who, seemingly tired from his early tilts against Jaime, had been unable to get his lance up properly in time. And though Jaime's blow did not unhorse the younger knight it did manage to knock Ser Loras' helmet off.

The crowd roared and time seemed to return to normal in a rush of noise and movement.

Jon applauded and smiled even as beside him Jory cursed in the old language of the north.

It took King Robert, who had been drinking heavily, a few moments to stand and, staring down at the two waiting knights with squinty, red rimmed eyes, he finally grunted and waved his hand towards Jaime.

"Congratulations, Kingslayer," the King declared, voice booming, the crowd having fallen silent the moment he had stood. "Seems you're not totally useless after all." The King waved the knight forward. "Come get your prize."

Jaime, having removed his helm, smiled as he nudged a heel to his horse's side, trotting forward to accept the winner's purse and the crown of winter roses. All along the stands women, highborn and low, stood, waiting with baited breath as Jaime rode down the stands. Had the Queen been present, all knew, she would have been the knight's choice. But she had remained in King's Landing with her children and that meant some lucky lady was about to earn the floral crown.

Jon leaned against the railing, stretched out to watch, eager to see whom Jaime would crown.

Jaime rode by many fine ladies of the Stormlands and the Reach, including Ser Loras' beautiful sister, Margaery, before slowing his horse as he drew near the stand where Jon was.

Jon felt his breath catch when Jaime, grinning like a self-satisfied cat, laid the crown atop his head. Hand lingered against Jon's cheek as the cheering and laughing crowd slowly fell silent, confused and surprised by the man's actions, Jaime held Jon's gaze as his grin became an almost gentle smile and, slowly, the knight bowed his head.

"For my _prince_ ," Jaime said softly as he lifted his head, ignoring the angry snarl from Jory, who was tugging at Jon's arm to try and pull him away. "Of love and beauty."

Without another word, Jaime tugged on his reins and galloped away.

Jon watched him go, very aware of the gazes fixed on him, the whispers as people looked, before Jory managed to drag him away and to his father who, most surprisingly, was waiting for him.

When his father started to make a fuss, in that quiet way of his, Jon let out an angry sound, plucking the crown of roses from his head. He hadn't asked for it or done anything, he felt, to make Jaime Lannister crown him. Nor did he want the attention it brought him. With a low sound, like the growl of a pup, he thrust the crown into Ned's hands, uncaring of the way it bruised the roses or crushed them.

"I didn't ask for it," Jon snapped hotly, one of the first times he could ever remember speaking to his father in such a manner. "I didn't!"

"Jon..." Ned started, his tone disapproving, but a shout from the King, who was now leaving the stands, distracted him enough to give Jon a chance to run.

Jon knew he would have to face his father eventually but in that moment he just wanted to be away from him. He wanted to be away from everyone.

It wasn't his fault that Jaime had crowned him.

It wasn't.

So why did his father act like he had done something wrong?


	4. Oberyn

Jon refused to attend another tourney, even those held in the north, refusing to see the look in his father's eyes that he had in the Stormlands. That reproachful, angry look that Jon had done nothing to earn.

He would be nearly fifteen before attending another tourney and he only did so to make Bran, who always looked so crushed when Jon refused to go with him and the others, happy.

The entire journey to Harrenhal reminded Jon why he had ceased attending tourneys with his family.

His father kept looking at him as though he was about to say something important but then would shake his head and look away again. Robb and Theon continuously teased him about being crowned with those damnable winter roses again while Sansa gushed on and on about how wonderful it would be if she were crowned. Bran and Arya at least acted as usual, bickering back and forth about who would win.

By the time they reached Harrenhal, Jon was glad to be able to escape his family for a short while. They were all to meet Lady Shella Whent, the host of the tourney that was meant, as Jon understood it, to celebrate King Robert's coronation.

As a bastard he was not expected to be present to greet their host.

Which meant, once his horse was in the makeshift stable, fed and watered, Jon was able to escape to the training field where many squires and some knights were practicing.

Jon watched, for a short while, before finding a spare practice sword and, on his own, began to work through the newer movements he'd been learning alongside Robb. He had just started to move into a turn when someone spoke.

"You should move to the left, not the right, that way you don't have to cross your feet like that."

Jon paused and looked up, finding a man dressed in a pale orange tunic and dark trousers watching him with dark eyes. The man stood a few paces away, a spear resting against his shoulder.

"Why shouldn't I cross my feet," he asked, glancing down at himself and then back to the man.

"I can show you if you'd like," the man offered and, curious, Jon nodded.

He went to move through the movements, about to turn, one foot crossing behind the other, when the man caught his leg with the shaft of his spear and, with a quick jerk, sent Jon toppling to the ground with a grunt. As the blade of the spear rested against his neck, Jon realized the answer to his question. The man smirked down at him before moving his spear away and offering Jon a hand.

"You leave yourself open, turning that way," the man said, pulling Jon to his feet. "You've skill but it could use some work." His smirk widened. "I could show you if you'd like."

Jon nodded as he retrieved his sword. It wasn't often he had a chance to practice with someone other than Robb or Theon.

"I'm Jon," he said, realizing he had not yet introduced himself, extending his hand which the man clasped again with a grin.

"Oberyn."

Jon felt a jolt go through him.

He knew that name.

Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that name.

Oberyn Martell, a Prince of Dorne, known as the Red Viper for the rumours that the Dornish Prince used poison when he fought.

Something must have shown on his face because Oberyn chuckled.

"I may be a Prince, boy, but that does not mean I view you any differently. If you are wary about training with me..."

"No," Jon said quickly, blushing when he realized he'd cut the man, the _Prince_ , off. "I...I mean...I would like to...train, that is, with you, I just..." He glanced at his practice sword. It was wooden, true, but still capable of doing some harm if he was not careful.

Again Oberyn seemed to understand because he gave Jon a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Men have been swinging swords at me for years, boy, you'll do no more harm than any of them have, I assure you." He grinned again. "And even if you do I will not be angry. Now come, show me what you know."

Jon, reassured by Oberyn's confidence, nodded and readied himself.

Sparing with Oberyn was different than anything Jon had ever experienced before.

The man was swift on his feet, quick as a viper, and Jon found himself struggling to keep up at times. They went back and forth for a long while, time and time again Oberyn disarming him before correcting him, showing him a better way to stand, how better to grip the hilt of his sword, how to watch a man's eyes to judge where he would strike. Jon found, much to his delight, that Oberyn made a rather excellent teacher.

Oberyn had just knocked Jon into the dirt again, pointing out how Jon left himself open when he started to attack, when a woman's voice called out.

"So this is where my lover disappeared to all day."

Oberyn, having just helped Jon to his feet, turned, a bright smile on his face.

"Forgive me, my love," the Prince said, spear resting against his shoulder as a woman in a fine golden dress that fit her like a glove, strode towards him.

She was not the most beautiful woman Jon had seen but there was something exotic about her simple beauty. Her long dark hair was braided up, though a few strands hung around her olive face, and her dark eyes were bright. Oberyn hugged her and pressed a heated kiss to her lips before turning to Jon again.

"Jon," Oberyn said, smiling happily. "May I introduce Ellaria, my paramour. Ellaria, my love, this is Jon."

Ellaria smiled, warm and kind, as she looked at Jon.

"A pleasure, my lord."

Jon quickly shook his head.

"I'm not a lord," he corrected gently. "I...I'm a Snow, my lady."

Ellaria hummed thoughtfully and moved forward, taking Jon's hands in hers, still smiling.

"And I'm not a lady," she said with mirth in her voice. "I am a Sand."

Jon blinked, looking quickly at Oberyn, who chuckled.

"Dorne is not like the rest of Westeros," the Prince explained. "We do not shame our children for the status of their births. Children are born of love and passion. Why should they be shamed for that?"

Jon felt his cheeks start to heat up, a blush crawling across his face, but was saved from answering when, from across the field, his father shouted to him.

"I...I have to go," he said, slowly, reluctantly, stepping away from Ellaria, who seemed just as reluctant to let him go. "It was a pleasure to meet you both."

Without another word he hurried away and towards his father, though he couldn't help but look back, finding both Oberyn and Ellaria watching him with matching expressions that he couldn't place.

Jon did not see much of Oberyn or Ellaria again until the jousting competition began and Ellaria, spotting him alone in the stands, invited him to sit with her in the main stand, where his family and some of the other nobles were. He pretended not to see the judgemental looks from said nobles, focusing instead on the jousting.

Oberyn, as it turned out, was competing in the joust and Jon couldn't help but be concerned.

Oberyn's horse was a Dornish sandhorse and smaller than the large destriers ridden by the other knights. It was a beautiful creature to be sure but Jon doubted its ability to hold its own against the larger, stronger horses.

Ellaria seemed to guess his thoughts because she laughed softly and took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers.

"My Oberyn is a smart man," she mused as Oberyn's squire, Daemon, brought him a lance. "He knows these other men will underestimate his horse and so they will underestimate him. But Oberyn has been jousting since he was younger than you. You'll see."

Jon's smile slowly returned and he nodded, trusting Ellaria to know what she was speaking of and he couldn't help but blush when she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, whispering in his ear to have faith. He pretended not to see his father, only a few seats away, watching with a frown. Instead he focused on the jousting matches, still holding Ellaria's hand.

Oberyn did indeed surprise him. The sand horse was swifter than any horse Jon had ever seen and Oberyn's years of experience served him well.

The Dornish in attendance roared their joy and approval when Oberyn made it to the finals. Ellaria laughed and hugged Jon, kissing him again, peppering his cheeks with kisses. He laughed and couldn't help but follow along when she tugged him to his feet and drawing him with her away from the stands to go find Oberyn. He heard his father call his name but ignored him, choosing instead to follow Ellaria.

Jon spent the evening in Oberyn's chamber with the Prince and his paramour, well aware of what would be said in the morning but, when Ellaria hugged him, letting him sip from her glass of Dornish wine, he found he didn't care. Nothing happened, he knew it and the gods, Old and New, knew it. A few sips of that wine, far stronger than anything he'd ever had, and he was curled up on the bed, all but asleep while Ellaria combed her fingers through his hair in a motherly way, Oberyn laid next to him, humming a lullaby that served to finish sending Jon off to sleep.

In the morning he woke to find Oberyn already gone and Ellaria helped Jon ready himself for the day, she styled his hair with Dornish braids and dressed him in one of Oberyn's spare tunics, saying how the gold brought out the ivory in his complexion perfectly, before together they went to the stands to watch the final joust.

Jon saw the dark scowl on his father's face and he and Ellaria took their seats, knew there would be trouble there, for him, possibly for Oberyn too, but he pretended not to care, focusing instead on the joust.

Oberyn faced off against some knight from the Westerlands whose name Jon couldn't recall, some cousin to the Queen, and Jon took Ellaria's hand as the horn sounded to announce the beginning of the joust.

It was hardly a match that would be talked about for ages to come. Oberyn's swift horse and his hard-earned skills made it hardly a fair match. The young knight he faced had, it seemed, made the final joust by pure luck and, with a fierce strike, was unhorsed by the first lance.

Only the Dornish cheered as Oberyn took his victory lap, well, the Dornish and Jon.

When Oberyn reached the main box, accepting the crown of roses with one of those charming grins, Jon chuckled and turned towards Ellaria.

"He'll crown you," he said as the crown began murmuring around them.

Ellaria hummed thoughtfully but didn't reply as Oberyn made his way down the stands, everyone watching as Oberyn showed off a little before reaching where Ellaria and Jon were sitting. Jon smiled and gave Ellaria's a hand a squeeze as Oberyn tugged his horse to a stop, he looked at her as though to say _I told you so_ , only to feel his smile wan when Oberyn reached out and lay those damnable flowers on _his_ head rather than Ellaria's.

Jon blinked, looking at Oberyn in disbelief as Ellaria laughed and hugged him, kissing his cheek. Oberyn smiled and bowed his head as his horse pawed at the ground, snorting loudly, before the Prince nudged a heel to the beast's side, trotting off.

Jon risked a glance to where his father was sitting and saw the quiet storm brewing in the man's grey eyes and, when Ellaria tugged him to his feet, he went willingly. Half tempted to ask her if he could join her and Oberyn in Dorne rather than face his father's anger again.

Two days later and Jon was riding home with his family, wearing one of Oberyn's rings on a thin cord of leather about his neck and a whispered promise floating through his mind from the Dornish Prince that, if he wanted, he would always had a place in Dorne.


	5. Sandor

After the fallout from what had happened at Harrenhal with Prince Oberyn, Jon quickly found his taste for tourneys all but gone. While his father had quietly stormed over the incident and the rumours that had spread from it, others, his siblings included, were not so quiet and Jon, angry and hurt that no one would listen, or believe, when he spoke truthfully that nothing had happened, that Oberyn had simply been acting kindly.

So, for the next two years, Jon refused to attend another tourney, even those held near Winterfell. He refused to take part in any way. Even when his father had made the attempt to bridge the gap that had cracked open between them he refused.

As those years crawled by he debated his future and, for a time, considered joining the Night's Watch but, when the King came to Winterfell, when he saw Jon training in the courtyard one early morning, an offer had been extended, a chance to become the King's squire. It was an honour Jon had not been able to refuse. Such an insult would never be accepted, especially not from a bastard. Even the bastard of the King's most beloved friend.

So, when his father, newly appointed Hand of the King, rode south with the Royals, Sansa and Arya in tow, Jon had no choice but to go.

He did his best to act pleased with his new position, even if he found King Robert to be little more than a brute with a fancy tin hat, but, more often than not during the long journey, felt like a dog on a leash. Orders were snapped at him and he was expected to blindly obey.

After yet another day of doing nothing but fetch food or wine for the King, Jon was half tempted to saddle his horse and ride for Winterfell rather than deal with the humiliation that came with being the King's squire.

Being dismissed at last, night having long ago fallen, Jon went in search of something to eat, his snowy direwolf pup, only a few months old, following silently at his side.

He found what little soup was left and found a quiet place near the edge of camp to sit and eat his cold supper in relative peace.

He had just thrown the crust of his bread to Ghost, who chewed happily on it, when a voice sounded from behind him.

"Poor choice of resting place for son of the new Hand."

Jon jerked, startled, and half turned, looking up at the man who had spoken.

"Ser Clegane," he started but the man, large and gruff, shook his head and grunted.

"No more a Ser than you are a Lord, boy." Those sharp, keen eyes fixed on his face. "Sandor is fine, if you wish to call me something. Hound works too."

Jon's nose wrinkled slightly.

"Do you actually like being called _Hound_?"

Sandor stared down at him for a moment before huffing softly.

"You know, it's almost funny, you're the first person to ask me that."

"You don't, do you?"

Sandor frowned. "Don't what?"

"You don't like being called that."

Sandor let out one of those gruff sounds again and, surprising Jon, sat next to him.

"A man accepts what other people call him," Sandor said as Ghost lifted his head, sniffing at Sandor's boot before seemingly dismissing the man. "I don't gather that you're all too fond of being called bastard but you say nothing because you know it won't change anything." The man gave him an understanding look. "We are what we are in this world, boy, and nothing changes it. We can use it though, to our benefits however we can."

Jon said nothing, finding that what Sandor had said was very similar to what Lord Tyrion had told him.

_Wear it like armour. And it can never be used to hurt you._

They fell into a strangely comfortable silence, Sandor surprising Jon by reaching out and running a hand over Ghost's fur. Even more surprising was that Ghost let him. The wolf pup shifted slightly where he lay to rest his head on the big man's knee. It told Jon more than Sandor would ever know about the man and his character.

After that the journey to King's Landing was not as terrible as it had been.

Jon spent his days running around like a fool for the King and, more often than not, his evenings were spent talking with Sandor or sparing with the man. He was not ashamed to admit the large man thoroughly thrashed him time and time again but it taught him a great deal about face a large enemy. Sandor would bark at him, correcting his footwork, how he held his sword. And, if he didn't properly correct himself, the man had no problem cuffing him upside the head and telling him again.

To anyone else their slowly building friendship was likely odd.

Prince Joffrey made comments, many and often loudly, about them, saying even as loyal hound would go sniffing after a wolf in heat.

Jon ground his teeth against it all and carried on.

And then came a day Jon would never forget. One that would cement his distaste, his hate even, for Prince Joffrey.

It was a rare day where the King had dismissed Jon, telling him to enjoy his day for once, and Jon had gone for a ride along the Trident when he came upon Arya and her friend, Mycah, the butcher's boy. They were trading blows with sticks, fake sword fighting, and Jon laughed, drawing Arya's attention. She grinned at him and, in good spirits for a change, Jon swung down from his saddle to join them. They were all laughing, Jon correcting the pair when necessary but, for the most part, they just went about having fun.

And then Joffrey and Sansa happened upon them.

Everything after that happened quickly and the only things Jon could clearly recall was Joffrey threatening Arya after she protected Mycah from the Prince's cruelty and then Nymeria bursting from the bushes where she had been laying with Ghost. Jon could not remember moving, could not remember putting himself between the Prince and the she-wolf. But he remembered the feel of Nymeria's fangs in his arm, the way her growl rumbled up his arm like the strike of a sword against a shield. He remembered the pain of the bite and Arya shouting at her wolf while Sansa screamed in fear. He remembered how, later, the Queen would call for the death of a wolf, any wolf, for what had happened but the King had put the choice to him.

He had claimed the blame, claimed that Nymeria had attacked him, not the Prince, because he had attempted to correct his little sister's behaviour. That her wolf had simply been protecting her. He chose mercy for the wolves. He bore the brunt of Arya's anger and disbelief.

Over the following weeks, Jon continued on, balancing his time, as best he could, between serving the King and spending time with Sandor. And, before long, the tournament to celebrate his father's new position as Hand of the King was upon them. When he asked Sandor if he'd considered entering the large man had snorted and all but slapped him upside the head.

"You've a brain, aye? Rattling about somewhere up there?" Sandor had growled out, shaking his head, reaching down to run his fingers gently through Ghost's fur as the wolf lay sleeping by his feet. "What did I tell you, huh? I'm no Ser."

Jon shrugged, polishing the King's armour, a task that had been reassigned to him after his fellow squire, Lancel, had, apparently, mucked it up.

"You could be," he replied, looking at Sandor, who took a swig of ale from his mug.

Sandor scoffed and shook his head.

"I've more in common with the damn wolf than I do any so called knight." Sandor shook his head again. "Leave it alone, boy. I am what I am. That's not going to change just because I put a pretty flower crown on some girl's head."

Jon grinned and the conversation turned, all thought of Sandor being part of the tourney disappearing until, a few days later when, during the joust between Ser Loras Tyrell and Sandor's elder brother, Gregor, things took an almost deadly turn.

Ser Loras had used a mare in heat, Jon heard Lord Baelish whisper, a trick to get Ser Gregor's stallion to cost him the joust. Ser Gregor did not respond well, first taking out his rage on his stallion, nearly slicing the poor beast's head completely off before making for Ser Loras who, in Jon's opinion, had not had the good sense to run.

It was in that moment that Sandor proved what Jon had thought of him all along. That there was more to him than first met the eye.

Sandor stepped in to defend Ser Loras, whether because Ser Loras was a friend of Prince Renly or because he did not want his brother to murder a man and thus taint their family name Jon could not even begin to guess but the fight was, it seemed, near evenly matched despite Ser Gregor being the bigger man, and only came to a halt when the King stood and bellowed like an angry boar.

Sandor dropped, almost immediately, to one knee, head bowed respectfully, while Ser Gregor stood, glaring daggers at the King before storming off, the declaration made that he would advance no further in the tourney.

Ser Loras showed his appreciation by withdrawing from the final match, which Sandor had been forced to participate in by the King's decree, meaning that the Hound was winner of the tourney.

Jon stood by the fence, Lancel at his side, grinning and applauding, loudly, as Sandor accepted his winnings from the King. He pretended not to see the look his father sent him, no doubt hearing him laugh and finding it inappropriate of him, but the look on Sandor's face was worth it. At least it was until Sandor's fierce gaze snapped to him as the man turned away from the king, crown of winter roses held in his grip and, before Jon could scramble away, the big man stomped over and shoved the damn thing on his head.

Jon winced, the petals dropping down into one eye, and peered up at Sandor, who was finally grinning, just a little.

"It's your color," was all the man said before he stomped off to resume his duties as Prince Joffrey's guard.

Jon didn't need to look around him to know people were staring.

He could feel the gazes on him.

Especially his father's.

That disapproving look that Jon had grown familiar with.

He was not fortunate enough to avoid his father after the tourney. The King it seemed was drunk enough to only require one squire and had chosen to spend his evening torturing poor Lancel rather than Jon. He had almost made it back to his room, had just stepped into the open space that served as his family's shared living quarters, was almost to the door to his chamber, when his father's hand fell heavy on his shoulder.

"Jon."

He knew that tone. Quiet yet firm. Reproachful. As though Jon had done something wrong. As though he had done something, once again, to earn a thrice damned crown of flowers.

He turned, slowly, spotting Sansa and Arya out of the corner of his eye and steeled his nerves.

"I did not..."

"Do you know what people are saying," Sansa suddenly spoke, drawing Jon and Ned's gaze. "What they're saying about you? About Father because of you?"

Jon did his best not to glare, to remain calm, as he snatched the crown of flowers from his head, throwing it down and, in likely the single most childish gesture of his life, ground the delicate flowers beneath his heel. He saw Sansa's eyes go wide, her jaw dropping open in shock, before his gaze swung back to their father.

Ned was surprised by his gesture but Jon could still see the disapproval in those familiar grey eyes and it only served to stoke the flames of his anger.

"And who's to blame for me being here for them to talk about?"

Jon spat the words icily, hands clenching tightly at his sides and he heard Arya suck in a sharp gasp even as Ned suddenly looked like he had been struck in the chest with a heavy shield.

"I never asked for this," Jon continued, shaking his head, suddenly the weight of the ring about his neck, the ring gifted to him as an invitation to a land where the circumstances of his birth would not be judged. "Any of it. You keep...You keep looking at me like I'm to blame for it all when...when I've done nothing wrong."

Jon took a step back, reaching blindly for the door handle, fighting to keep the angry tears at bay a little while longer.

"It's not my fault you're ashamed of me, of having people remember that I exist," he said, finally getting the door to his chamber opened. Ned whispered his name, starting to move, to reach for him, but Jon shook his head and, within the room Ghost whined as though mirroring his frustration. "I wish you had left me with my mother."

He heard his father say his name again but stepped into his room and all but slammed the door behind him, bolting it shut before sinking to the floor, arms wrapping around himself as Ghost suddenly pressed against his side as the tears finally fell.


	6. Jorelle

The weeks following that tourney had been tense and something in the air, not only around his family but throughout the entire capital, had had Jon on edge and, looking back, he hadn't been surprised when his father suddenly announced they were all returning to Winterfell.

It had been during that return journey that Jon had learned that his father, honourable man that he was, had refused to go along with the King's plan to assassinate a Targaryen girl halfway across the world. All because she had married some Dothraki horse lord and fallen pregnant. All because, Jon thought, he was scared she, as the daughter of the Mad King, would amass an army and march against him and try to take back the Iron Throne.

When Jon had asked why his father cared, why some girl half a world away was worth throwing away the honour of being the Hand of the King, Ned had looked at him with the strangest expression before quietly saying _"There is no honour or glory in permitting the murder of an innocent child. And murdering her, just because of who her family was, is wrong. It will always be wrong."_

Jon had seen something then flicker in Ned's eyes, shame and pain, and he remembered how the men of Winterfell whispered, when drunk and reminiscing about the Rebellion, how Ned had argued that the deaths of Princess Elia and her children was unjust and should have been punished. 

He hadn't asked anything else, had let the topic lay, not quite forgetting it but letting it drift to the back of his mind.

Winterfell hadn't changed in the months they had been gone and they arrived in time to find the preparations for Rickon's name-day underway and Bran awake and, though a bit grumpier than before, in seemingly excellent health. Jon had hugged Bran close and smiled against his auburn curls when Bran had huffed and told him he was being silly but clung tightly to him all the same. Both thinking the same thing. How horrible it would have been had they never again had this chance.

After that Jon found it easy to fall back into old routines and habits even as he slowly began to plan his journey to the Wall. He knew his father would not wish it, and part of him no longer felt the full pull to the Nights Watch as he once had, not now that he had seen more of the world, but there were no other choices for him. 

The only thing that made him hesitate, made him second guess that choice, was Jory Mormont.

He had met her years earlier, when they had still be children, when Lady Maege Mormont had visited Winterfell with a handful of her daughters, Jory among them

The girl a year or so older than himself, had been as fierce and wild as the bear that decorated her family shields. She had taken one look at him and had grinned, speaking in the Old Tongue, the old language of the North, so very rarely spoken now, and had made him blush with her declaration.

_Vi vil blive gift en dag._

_We will get married one day._

They'd been barely eight and nine, respectively, but Jory had seemed set on her decision, even as the men of Bear Island and Winterfell had chuckled and outright laughed around them. Jon had never taken it seriously. What boy would at that age?

They had kept in contact, writing letters often and easily forming a quick and strong friendship. So, when she rode into Winterfell with a host of men from Bear Island for the tourney, Jon had been there to greet her. She had, properly, greeted his father and Lady Stark first but then rushed to him, throwing her arms around him with a laugh. She fawned over Ghost, awed by the beautiful of quiet direwolf, and insisted that Jon tell her everything that had happened in the last few months.

He told her it all. His feelings about the King and the capital and the tension that had only grown between him and his father in recent months. He told her of his doubts of joining the Watch, though expressed that he feared he had no place else to go.

Jory had sat, silently, watching him, listening, before giving a smile so warm it could have melted the Wall itself.

She vowed to find him another choice. Another path. She would not see him waste his life doing something his heart was no longer set on.

Two days after her arrival the tourney began, with knights from all corners of the North taking to their horses for the joust. Jon sat with Robb and Theon at his brother's insistence, ruffling Bran's hair as he passed, the boy all but squawking and shoving his hand away with a pout. He kept glancing around for Jory but saw no sign of her, worried, only momentarily, that something had happened.

And then he looked across the field.

Sat astride a beautiful black gelding was a slender knight of Bear Island, carrying the banner of House Mormont to the podium to place with all the rest. The slender build, the lighter armour, and the banner told Jon the truth of the knight's identity.

Jory Mormont had come to prove why the women of her family were called she-bears.

He smiled, even made a wager on the outcome of the tourney with Theon, knowing the other knights, so much bigger and stronger, would underestimate Jory because of her size. They had no idea the strength and fierceness of the woman who so boldly rode against them. He watched, eager and hopeful, and a little afraid for her, as knight after knight fell until, finally, only two riders remained.

A knight from the Dreadfort, champion for Lady Bolton, and the mystery knight from Bear Island.

The final joust would be held the next morning and, that night, Jon was not surprised when Jory snuck into his room.

"You're mad," he said with a laugh as Jory, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers dropped down onto his bed. "If something happens to you, Jory, you're mother..."

"Will tell me I did not try hard enough," she was quick to retort, grinning, reaching out to brush Jon's curls from his face before her fingers dropped, fiddling with the Dornish ring he still wore on a cord about his neck. "You could have chosen not to come back here." She looked at him with warm eyes. "It would have been easy for you to take a ship to Dorne. Prince Oberyn would probably have welcomed you with open arms."

Jon shook his head and sighed.

"This is my home. The North." He reached up and touched the ring, remembering Prince Oberyn's promise that he would always be welcome in Sunspear should he ever wish to stop having to hide in shame because of a choice not his own. "I'll find no honour in running away to hide among the dunes of the south."

Jory smiled and shuffled closer.

"My quiet wolf," she mused and Jon chuckled, his cheeks heating up as a blush spreading over his features when Jory moved, leaning up to press a gentle, almost chaste, kiss to his lips. Drawing back, she smiled at him, bright and happy and warm. "You could always run away with me to Bear Island."

"Jory..."

"Think about it," she said, still smiling, crawling into his lap and settling there comfortably. "We could find a place on the north shore and build a keep. Our banners would be green and grey, with a white wolf and black bear dancing together."

Jon chuckled.

"And would our children be called Snow?" He meant it to be teasing but couldn't help the bitterness that seeped into his voice.

Jory's smile did not waver and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Jon's, hands reaching up to cup his face.

"Yes," she said firmly, confidently, and Jon felt a thrill of surprise at her declaration. "They would be Snow Wolves and Snow Bears."

Jon couldn't help but envision that, if only for a moment, the life Jory was so easily, so happily, describing. He could envision the children, a boy and girl, both with dark hair, one, the girl, with his grey eyes, and the other, the boy, with her green eyes. He envisioned them both fierce and strong but honourable. He envisioned them being called Lord and Lady rather than _bastard_. And, despite what Jory had said only moments earlier, he envision them being called Mormont rather than Snow.

Something, some flicker of the joy the imaginings brought him, must have shown on his face because Jory's smile quickly widened and she pressed almost impossibly closer.

"We could be happy," she whispered and Jon finally smiled, hugging Jory, knowing it was wishful thinking, on both their parts, but it was a nice dream all the same. "We could make our world as we want it."

Jon could not deny how wonderful that sounded.

"Jory," he whispered her name and Jory hummed softly before pressing a kiss to his lips.

She slipped back to her own chambers not long after, though she made him promise to at least consider her words before going, and, laying there in the darkness, Jon could almost see the life she offered. It still seemed but a fanciful dream, no matter how much part of him ached for it, for even some small piece of it.

In the morning he rose and went in search of Robb and Theon, knowing better then to seek out Jory, knowing she would be preparing for the final joust. By the time they headed for the jousting pitch, Jon was nervous, Jory's words from the night before all but singing, over and over again, in his mind as he sat with Robb and Theon.

_"We could be happy. We could make our world as we want it."_

He swallowed around the lump in his throat as the two knights rode out, his gaze fixed on Jory, on the gleam of her armour, the way her horse tossed its head almost wildly as it pawed fiercely at the dirt. He couldn't help but smile as she rode round the pitch, lanced held towards the sky, the men and women of Bear Island cheering loudly. And he found himself cheering as well. When she looked at him, and even with her helmet on he knew she was looking at him, his heart leapt as, again, her words whispered through his mind.

_" We could be happy. We could make our world as we want it."_

As the knights took their positions, Jon glanced to where his father stood, giving a small speech to open the joust and wish both riders well. He quickly swung his gaze back to the riders, to Jory, and all but held his breath as the flag dropped and the horses charged. It was a fierce and brutal clash, lance after lance breaking, and with every strike Jon was certain Jory would be thrown from her saddle but she held fast. 

When the final lance was called, when the horses charged for the final time, Jon did hold his breath, leaning forward to grip the rail before him as he watched, heart hammering in his chest, as Jory charged the Bolton knight.

The world seemed to slow as the two riders drew closer and then, in the blink of an eye, they came together in a fierce clash of steel and wood and, as Jon watched, the Bolton knight fell from his saddle, foot catching firm in the stirrup causing his horse to drag him across the pitch while a handful of squires chased after it.

Jon laughed and cheered, surging to his feet, hands braced on the railing, barely hearing Theon moaning about loosing their bet, and watched as Jory rode around the pitch, tossing away her broken lance as she waved to the cheering and adoring crowd. She passed him, once, looking at him and, he knew, grinning brightly beneath her helm. He watched her ride to the main podium and couldn't stop smiling even as he watched her draw the helm from her head.

A chorus of gasps and hushed whispers went through the crowd but Jon just kept grinning as Jory revealed herself for whom she truly was.

Her long dark hair fell in a heavy braid over one shoulder, her face, sporting some slight bruising over one cheek, but she was smiling and looking up at his father as though daring the man to deny her the victory she had won.

Ned looked torn between laughing and reproaching her but, in the end, declared her to be the tourney champion and handed her the purse of winnings and the crown of winter roses.

Jon stood there, smiling, knowing what was to come when Jory turned her horse, trotting it along the railing, seemingly pretending to be considering who to crown. He knew what she would do. Just as he had known what Sandor was going to do that day all those weeks ago. But, instead of dreading it as he had in the past, he merely stood there, watching and waiting. He thought he heard Robb say something to Theon but Jory was suddenly there, grinning at him, before stretching up in her stirrups.

He chuckled and leaned forward, enough so that she could reach him easier, and he heard the whispers start afresh when she laid the crown upon his head.

What she did next surprised even him.

She caught hold of the front of his tunic and drew him forward, boldly pressing a kiss to his lips, and, despite hearing the scandalized hisses and whispers around them, Jon kissed back just as boldly.

He heard Robb say his name, heard Theon whoop and cheer, as Jory drew back. She grinned at him before giving the slightest tilt of her head towards the back of her saddle and, without thought as to how it would look or what people would say, Jon climbed over the railing and onto the back of Jory's horse, arms wrapping about her middle to hold on.

People shouted and he heard Robb call his name, heard his father shout, but Jory pressed her heels to the horse's sides and it leapt forward.

Jon laughed as he held tight to her, hearing Jory laugh as well, her body trembling with it, as they rode from the pitch and across the field away from Winterfell, leaving the shouting and confused crowd behind.

They rode for what felt like forever and yet no time at all.

When they finally stopped, near the edge of the wolfswood, Jon climbed from the saddle first before reaching up to help Jory down. She was smiling and laughing when she asked him to help her out of the armour and, given his time, limited as it had been, as a squire, his fingers made quick work of it. It was set aside, forgotten, as Jory turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips again.

"Run away with me, Jon," she whispered when she drew back. "We could be happy together."

Jon smiled as he reached up to cup her cheek.

"Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me," he asked softly and Jory's smile widened.

"Of course I do." She pressed another kiss to his lips. " _Vi vil blive gift en dag._ "

"Do you really believe it?"

Jory laughed, light and airy, and ran her fingers through his hair just below where the crown of flowers sat.

"I knew it when I first laid eyes on you," she said. "And I have known, and believed it, every day since."

Jon leaned in and kissed her, deep and passionate, and Jory let out a soft sound as she pressed closer to him. When they parted, Jon pressed his forehead to hers, smiling, rubbing his thumb over the edge of her jaw and then uttered a phrase in the Old Tongue.

" _Jeg vil giftes med dig._ "

_I want to marry you._

Jory's eyes widened, her mouth going slack in surprise, before she whooped, loudly and happily, hugging him tightly, kissing him again.

Jon was laughing, happily, when they parted. Jory clung to him, beaming so brightly she rivalled the sun itself, and she laughed with him as he spun her in a wide circle. They stayed there, for a long while, among the trees, holding on to each other, and Jon was still worried his decision was not yet the right decision but he was happy when he was with Jory, and thinking of the life they might have made him happy. When he finally said they should return to Winterfell Jory gave a reluctant nod and allowed him, with a slight grumble, to help her into the saddle once more.

The ride back to Winterfell was filled with quiet talks of the keep they would build, the home and life they would build. He smiled against Jory's shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to her neck as they rode through the main gate of the castle that, for some time now, had felt more like a cage than a home and, knowing what they had planned for the future, Jon felt as though he could properly breathe once again.

It was a feeling that was short lived.

He had no more climbed from the saddle then a hand grabbed his arm.

Surprised, he spun, expecting Robb or even his father, he had not, however, been expecting Lady Stark.

"Do you," she said hotly. "Have any idea how worried your father has been?"

"I..." Jon blinked as Jory dropped from her horse, glaring fiercely at Lady Stark. "M'lady...I..."

"Jon!"

Ned's voice rang out and Jon turned, watching with growing dread, as his father marched towards him, Robb and Theon close behind.

He was surprised when Ned unexpectedly yanked him into a tight hug. The sort of hug he'd given when Jon had still been small.

"Gods, boy," the Lord of Winterfell whispered against Jon's hair, arms shaking where they were wrapped around Jon. "I thought it like Harrenhal all over again."

Jon frowned, not understand what his father meant by that and, confused by the words and the way his father was acting, quickly pulled away, putting distance between them, moving closer to Jory who, quick as a blink, was at his side, taking his hand in fear they might be separated.

"Lord Stark," Jory spoke softly, gently, like a proper lady rather than the fierce warrior Jon new her to be. "I apologize if our behaviour seemed inappropriate but given our plans we will not be shamed."

"Plans?" Lady Stark stepped around them, seeing how their fingers laced together, how Jory tilted her chin upwards in a daring gesture of defiance. "What plans, Lady Jorelle?"

"We plan to marry," Jon said, voice firmer and stronger than he had expected. He watched the shock ripple through his father and Lady Stark, seeing Robb's jaw drop open in surprise, and gathered his courage. Glad that Jory was at his side. "We're..." He glanced at Jory and she smiled. "We're leaving for Bear Island as soon as we can."

"Jon," Ned started but Jon shook his head.

"I know what I am," he said as he looked, again, at Jory. "She knows it too." He looked back at Ned. "But she doesn't care and...and to me at least...that's all that matters."

"It's not proper," Lady Stark snapped hotly and Jory shot the woman a cold look.

"My sister has two children and no husband," Jory pointed out, grinning almost wickedly at the shocked, almost scandalized look on Lady Stark's face. "And not a man or woman on Bear Island gives a toss about it. They're her children, Mormont children, and they'll do the same for Jon."

Her fierce gaze swung to Ned then.

"Or, mayhaps," she continued, squeezing Jon's hand reassuringly. "He'll be called Mormont and my mother's House might once again have a son it can be proud of."

Jon felt himself blush, felt the heat of it crawl across his face, but he did not back down. Instead holding his father's gaze.

"I'm not a child any longer," he said, reaching up to pluck the crown of winter roses from his head, holding it out to Ned, who slowly took it. "I will not hide for fear of shaming you any longer, Father." He gave a small, sad smile. "I love you and...and I wish to honour you...to make you proud of me but I...I will not hide any more. I'm sorry."

Jory tugged his hand and, before Ned or Lady Stark could say more, pulled him away. Jon gripped her hand tightly and she looked up, smiling at him reassuringly.

That night, after Jon said his goodbyes in private to his siblings, Robb promising to say nothing to their father until morning, Jon and Jory slipped, quietly, secretly, from Winterfell, riding for the nearest harbour where a boat would take them to Bear Island. Jon felt a pang of guilt, for not saying goodbye to his father, but he couldn't bear to see a disappointed look on his face again. Nor could he take the chance of the man talking him out of this decision.

For once Jon would be his own person, he would find his own way in the world. With Jory at his side he was confident he could, and would, succeed.


End file.
